


a leg to stand on

by whitchry9



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Car Accidents, Friendship, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Matt "I'll be fine" Murdock strikes again, Matthew please stop driving, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Secrets, Team Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: Matt figures it'll be fine. He doesn't need two legs to be Daredevil, just needs a strong sense of justice and his fists.(Two legs helps though.)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 258
Collections: Daredevil Kink Meme





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yall I wrote this one in 2017/2018. blame the title on that.  
> I accumulated a whole page of references, and now know a lot on the topic. it be like that sometimes. 
> 
> technically a fic for this prompt: https://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/9408.html?thread=18246080#cmt18246080  
> (does anyone even use the meme anymore? idk)
> 
> chapters are all generally pretty short. I was younger when I wrote them.  
> timeline wise, this is post Defenders, as it references that, but disregards S3 of DD, because it didn't exist when I wrote it.

It didn't hurt.

And that was the most concerning thing. Normally, when your leg was crushed by a crumpled dashboard, Matt expected it would hurt.

The fact that it didn't was concerning.

He shifted, slightly, and that's when it hurt. Pain shot up his thigh into his abdomen. His entire spine hurt along with it. Apparently, his leg hadn't liked that.

Matt was trying not to listen close, not to pay attention, but he couldn't help it. He could smell the blood, hear it dripping wherever it landed. When he moved, shattered bones grated against one another. Muscles that had already been torn ripped further. He swore he could hear severed nerves scream.

Or maybe that was him.

The pain ended and it was back to more numbness.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

But the growing implication of what it all meant... that was probably the worst.

There was gasoline, burning. It wasn't on him, not yet, but it was close. Closer than anyone who could stop it, closer than anyone who could help. _Oh shit the chemicals the fucking chemicals._

But he was trapped.

The leg, the one he couldn't feel except for the screaming of the rest of him when he tried to move it, was caught.

He hadn't seen this movie, hadn't even heard Foggy talk about it, but he knew how it ended.

So he reached for the nearest sharp thing, metal that had been torn like paper in the collision, sharp and jagged, and went to work.

* * *

He dragged himself from the car, from the flames, as far as his failing arms would take him, and then he collapsed.

The explosion was still too close, and he could almost see it. Felt like he should be able to see something that was surely so bright and hot.

Sirens approached. He realized he was probably in shock. Confusion, cold, fading.

There were hands, so many hands, so many voices. He tried to answer questions.

_Yes I can hear you, it only hurts when I move, I'm blind so shining those lights won't prove anything, please help me._

He faded in and out. There was a collar around his neck, a mask over his face, tubing in his hand.

So much more blood.

* * *

He was flat on his back, on the most uncomfortable bed he'd ever been on, and trapped. Somehow he'd been captured.

“Matthew, it's okay,” someone above him tried to say.

He pulled against the straps holding him down. He couldn't even turn his head.

“You're in an ambulance. We're taking you to the hospital.”

He didn't want to go to a hospital. He wanted...

He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew it wasn't this.

He moved and his leg screamed and something was wrong, something was so so wrong.

* * *

The bed was more comfortable and he could turn his head, but everything hurt and he was cold and he still felt trapped.

“Matty it's okay,” Foggy assured him.

Matt didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him. Why was he there?

“We need to sedate him,” someone said, someone that he probably shouldn't have been able to hear but he could, he always could.

He didn't feel the prick of a sedative, but he did feel its effects and he sank deeper into the bed than he thought possible.

* * *

He dreamed.

A story his father had told him, of a bear that had gotten trapped, chewed off its own foot, and went to seek revenge.

Matt didn't think that bears were capable of revenge, and told his father this, who had laughed and told him not to take things so literally.

But now, he was the bear, his teeth bloodied with his work, limping and out for revenge.

_Beardevil,_ Foggy's voice helpfully provided.

Even as a bear, even in his dreams, he didn't have sight.

Maybe it was a nightmare.

Reflecting on the themes, yeah, it was probably a nightmare.


	2. Chapter 2

He awoke.

The bed was comfortable, nothing was tying him down, and he felt... okay. Good even.

He didn't know where he was, which was a little concerning, but he found that he didn't care.

“Hey Matty,” Foggy said.

Matt smiled. “Foggy.”

“Oh you are so high right now.”

Matt giggled.

Foggy coughed a little bit. “Yeah, so high. How are you feeling?”

“Feeling?” He considered that. “I'm good.”

“Wow, okay. I actually believe you, that's how many drugs you're on.”

Matt nodded. It was nice to be believed.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I was a bear,” Matt told him. “Beardevil,” he whispered in case anyone else was around.

Foggy sighed. “That's a terrible joke. Also I'm not sure when you would have been a bear.”

Matt wasn't sure either, he just knew it had happened. “Your joke,” he said.

“I would definitely remember something like that happening,” Foggy told him.

Matt hummed. “Maybe it was dream you.”

“You have dreams about me? I feel honoured.”

“More of a nightmare really.”

“Naturally.”

Matt shifted, and the sheets scratched his skin. Where was he? Not at home. But where else would he sleep?

And why was he high?

“Foggy. What happened?”

Foggy sighed. He sounded worried.

Matt couldn't hear his heart to tell if he was or not.

“I was hoping you could tell me. You were in an accident, but no one can figure out the details, considering the van exploded. Any ideas?”

Matt remembered a crash, metal being crumpled, someone screaming.

Blood.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh no.”

He clenched his fists and he could feel the cuts where he held the jagged piece of metal in them.

“You okay?” Foggy asked.

“Not really,” Matt admitted. “I... remember what happened.”

Foggy sagged. “Shit man. Sorry.”

“How bad is it?”

“Do I look like a doctor?”

Matt opened his eyes and tried to glare in his direction, but because of the drugs might have missed.

“Yeah okay,” Foggy conceded. “It's not great. But I guess better than if you'd still been pinned to the wall by the van? Or unconscious right next to it?” he offered helpfully.

Matt sighed, closing his eyes again, feeling the draw of exhaustion. “Yeah.”

Maybe Foggy didn't need to know the whole truth.

* * *

His right leg, as far as he could tell, was gone from just below the knee. He couldn't be sure, based on the cast and bandages, but he had a vague sense of remembered where it had been trapped.

He hadn't bled out, which was nice. He remembered so much blood.

He had some broken ribs, which were probably from the airbag, lacerations on his palms, a concussion, a hint of whiplash, and scrapes and bruises all over, but he was alive.

When he got into the car, he wasn't sure that was a guarantee.


	3. Chapter 3

It was late, probably too late for him to be out when it wasn't in the suit, but a client had wanted to meet in Central Park, and then he made sure she got safely on the bus, because he was a gentleman if nothing else.

He didn't mind the walk back so much, the dim light not bothering him one bit. It was almost nice, except for the van parked by Cherry Hill Fountain.

He might have been able to let the smell of fertilizer go if it had been the only thing in the van. Because sure, fertilizer in one of the groundskeeper's trucks would be okay, but mixed with nitromethane?

Not a chance.

Plus the van was just sitting there, the groundskeeper nowhere within earshot of Matt. Why would he leave his vehicle parked so far away, unless his intention was to get away?

Engine still hot told Matt he might have time, keys still in the ignition told him it might even be possible. Hudson river was what, a mile away?

But of course, traffic in New York City was _hell._

Still, he knew he had to try. Anywhere should have been better than the Cherry Hill Fountain. It was late, but not late enough that the park was anywhere near empty, and he could hear children laughing nearby.

He crossed himself before firing up the van, hoping that wasn't the detonator.

It wasn't.

He didn't bother with his seatbelt as he swung the van out into the street, narrowly missing another vehicle from the sound of it, or maybe that was just how traffic worked.

He was out of the park and on the road and desperately trying to remember which way the traffic was on the next street before just going for it. Outside of Hell's Kitchen, his mental map was not so great, but he knew there was green space under the parkway, probably with a walking path underneath.

He hoped that he could steer the van through and out to the other side, hopefully without killing anyone in the progress.

He did the math as he tried not to hit anyone.

The same chemicals as the Oklahoma City bombing, but that was what, 7000 pounds? This van was nowhere near that full, and hopefully would not have anywhere near the same blast radius, but it was still a risk he couldn't take, not anywhere near people.

If he was lucky, he might be able to get it into the Hudson river before it exploded.

He'd made it most of the way down the street, which was West 72nd, which wasn't even a one way street, so he didn't have to be worried. At least seven people had threatened to kill him and he'd lost count of how many had sworn at him, but he figured he was doing well for a blind man who'd never really driven before.

There was screaming as he tore through the walking path, and up ahead, a park maybe? No, a dog park. He laid on the horn, hoping that no one was in his way. If he killed a dog, Foggy would kill him.

To the right of the dog park, a walking path and a tunnel that went under the parkway. He had the van all lined up, praying that it would fit, when someone screamed and he jerked the wheel in response. The van hit the wall before he could adjust and he woke up screaming.

A nurse came running in.

 _Nightmare,_ Matt assured himself. “Nightmare,” he told her, accepting more pain medication.

Of course, it wasn't just a nightmare. It was his life now.

But he'd been the only one to get hurt. What he'd thought was a bomb was simply a lot of fertilizer and a _fucking pesticide._ Whatever Central Park Conservancy was doing with a carcinogenic, highly explosive pesticide, Matt had no idea.

But it was probably better than them thinking he was a terrorist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not coping well with the semi apocalypse, so here, have a chapter.

Foggy brought his laptop to the hospital the next day, and Matt spent the hour he could stay awake looking up prosthetics. Apparently lower limb prosthetics were pretty advanced, and could allow him to regain normal mobility. He knew that there were Paralympians with prosthetic legs, or even two, that had times rivaling that of Olympians. Most of them used running blades, which made Matt think of that one movie Foggy had made him watch, with a woman who had literal blades for legs.

Not a bad movie, all things considered.

The pain medication made him fuzzy, and he drifted off into a dream where his leg was a sword and he kept cutting people with it accidentally, first Foggy, then Karen, then Claire, then anyone who came near him.

 _“Please stay away, it's not safe!”_ he cried out to them, but they didn't listen, kept putting themselves in harms way while he grew bloodier and bloodier.

He woke up, his foot that was no longer there aching.

Great. He knew the drugs wouldn't touch that because just like his foot, it wasn't actually there.

He sighed, looking up the best prosthetic legs for high impact lifestyles.

* * *

The first day after surgery they had him sitting in a chair, his casted leg (what was left of it) propped up on a pillow.

The surgeon showed up at some point and told him everything looked good, that the wound should heal, that a prosthetic should fit nicely, that he should regain mobility and independence and whatever else.

Matt mostly stopped listening.

Karen visited, and even Brett.

Well, technically it was Brett's job to be there. He was supposed to ask Matthew how the hell he got hit by a van that was supposed to be in Central Park, with a driver nowhere to be found, and one hell of an explosion obliterating any conceivable evidence.

Just because the ingredients hadn't been intended as a bomb didn't mean they didn't act like one.

But that was his saving grace, the fact that they assumed he had been hit by the van, not the one driving it. It made sense, after all.

And being pinned against a wall by a van also explained the traumatic amputation.

Well. Sort of. It would have explained an amputation a lot higher up, with damage that extended to mid thigh, not mid calf. It also didn't explain the ragged edges of the wound that were surgical, but done with a hesitant, shaky hand. It didn't explain the matching wounds on his hand where he gripped the jagged metal tightly to keep it from slipping.

Matt mostly just shook his head and claimed he didn't really remember, just remembered the meeting with the client, leaving her at the bus stop, and heading home.

Maybe Brett believed it, maybe he didn't. Matt was still too medicated to be sure.

* * *

Matt had an assessment a few days after surgery, which mostly involved the residual limb (stump, Matt knew it was called a stump) being discussed and x-rays gestured at. The cast would stay on for a few more days. Apparently it would help swelling go down, help with healing, and shape the residual limb (stump, Matt told himself) into something that would work better with a prosthesis.

They asked him how he was doing and didn't believe him when he said he was doing okay, even though he was.

He'd lost his sight when he was nine, this was no worse than that.


	5. Chapter 5

Physical therapy increased beyond the passive range of motion exercises of the first day, where a therapist would bend his hip for him.

There was standing and walking along parallel bars where he couldn't help but feel he was about to walk off the end any second.

He wondered how long it would take to get a prosthesis. It would be nearly impossible to manage crutches and his cane, or a wheelchair and his cane.

And yet, on what was probably the third day after surgery, the physical therapist, a lovely woman by the name of Eugenia, had him up and standing with his leg in some sort of temporary prosthesis. It hurt, which was probably more related to the tapering down of the pain meds more than anything else, but it still felt great to be standing on his own, even if he was in between two parallel bars while doing so.

He couldn't bend his knee because of the cast, but he could swing the whole thing as a unit. It ached vaguely, and Matt wondered exactly what the bone was doing inside there. Was it moving around? Had it been smoothed out so it wouldn't cut into his muscles?

Maybe he didn't want to know.

* * *

Foggy didn't really ask him the specifics of the accident, which was probably for the best, because there was always someone within earshot, and they both knew Matt would have had to lie.

Matt did tell him that he didn't want anyone else to know. Not Claire, even though she'd probably find out sooner or later, and certainly not Jessica, Luke, or Danny.

“You think you can hide it from them?” Foggy asked, incredulous.

“I managed to hide that I was blind for a while.”

“Yeah, but you don't really have any ways to compensate for missing a limb. That's something pretty evident Matt.”

“I don't want them to know,” he repeated.

“Fine, I won't tell them, but this is definitely going to come back to bite you later. They're not stupid.”

That Matt conceded, but didn't budge on his stance.

* * *

Apparently both the Central Park Conservancy and the New York Department of Parks and Recreation picked up on the police report relatively quickly. Matt had to admit, it would have been terrible publicity that one of their vans was involved in an accident with a prominent blind local lawyer, who was now an amputee. (Not to mention it would be impossible for him to hide if it got out.)

They managed to suppress it quickly enough by promising to pay his medical bills, including the cost of a prosthesis.

Matt knew Foggy was relieved, and had to admit he was relieved himself. Their health insurance coverage was minimal and would never cover the cost of an advanced prosthesis like he was looking into. He needed one that would allow him to continue his work as Daredevil, it wasn't even a question.

Matt hadn't told Foggy that of course, but suspected he already knew.

* * *

He learned to walk with the temporary prosthesis and a walker, then crutches. The worst part was not being able to use his cane at the same time. He wasn't able to balance well enough without crutches, and he felt unbalanced with one, fearful of falling over. Plus the temporary prosthesis didn't fit right and hurt. Eugenia assured him that when everything settled with his leg, he would be fitted for a custom prosthesis that would fit him exactly, but he didn't want to wait.

* * *

The day before Matt was set to leave, the cast was removed and he could bend his knee again. He didn't realize how much he missed it.

Eugenia walked him through caring for the wound, and allowed him to get used to touching it. It was weird. It just ended.

The incision was healing, and Matt thought that sometimes he could hear the cells dividing and knitting back together, but that was probably also the medication, or lack thereof, talking.

The sutures were a bit horrifying, and he could imagine how angry the wound looked, but he couldn't see it so it didn't really matter.

Another hard dressing was made, but this one was intended to be removed and replaced, with additional socks underneath as the swelling went down. Eugenia walked him through putting it on and taking it off.

He also had to learn to check the residual limb daily, making sure there were no areas of skin breakdown, no swelling or painful spots.


	6. Chapter 6

Before discharge, the surgeon came in to talk to Matt again.

He was an older man. He sat down at Matt's bedside and walked him through the surgery.

“I like to do this with all my patients, usually before the surgery, which in your case wasn't possible. You had a transtibial amputation, which means below the knee. Unlike most of the amputations that are done, yours was a traumatic amputation. Most amputations are done because of infection or peripheral vascular disease,” he explained.

Matt nodded.

“Because of the trauma you experienced, the procedure was a bit different than if it was a planned surgery. The residual limb is shorter than is preferred, but will still be long enough for a good prosthesis fit. Because of the trauma, some of the muscle and skin that would normally be used to cover the bone were gone. This just meant we had to use different skin, which left you with a more interesting wound pattern.”

“Wow, really?” Matt asked dryly.

The surgeon laughed. “Yes, well, I thought I'd let you know, if you were curious. In addition, there was some damage to the bone that was repaired with nails. We also did a procedure called a bone bridge, when part of the bone is used to connect both of the bones in the lower leg to prevent movement later on and provide what is hopefully a stronger surface for the prosthesis. I heard you've already been up and using a temporary prosthesis, which is great. Do you have any questions for me?”

“What level of activity will I be able to return to? I did a lot of boxing before, some running. Can I still do that once it heals, or is it impossible?”

“Nothing is impossible Mr Murdock. Surely you've heard of athletes with one or even two prosthetic legs competing at a very high level. It may take you some time to get there, but I'm confident you can. You're young and healthy and certainly seem devoted. The type of prosthesis you get can also help you, which is something you should probably discuss with your prosthetist. As far as when you'll be able to do these things, that is something we'll have to wait and see, which I'm sure isn't the answer you were hoping for, but is the best I can do for now.”

Matt nodded.

The surgeon paused for a moment, and Matt could tell there was a question coming.

“I've seen crush injuries before,” he said. “A few from car accidents like yours. I've never seen anyone come in with the kind of injury you did, with almost surgical wounds.”

Matt froze and then shrugged.

“How are your hands?” he asked.

Matt clenched his fists together, feeling the scabs that criss-crossed his palms. “Fine.”

The surgeon nodded. “I wish you the very best in your recovery Mr Murdock.”

Matt muttered a thanks and the surgeon slipped out.

* * *

He'd missed his apartment, or perhaps more precisely, the privacy and familiarity of his apartment. Foggy had insisted on moving in for at least a week while he healed, but Matt didn't mind that as much. Anything was better than nurses and doctors visiting at all hours.

“Okay Matty,” Foggy said as soon as he'd gotten seated on the couch, his legs elevated. “What happened?”

“I know that the police and everyone thinks the van hit me, crushed my leg, but that isn't what happened. I was the driver.”

Foggy groaned, rubbing his hands on his face. “Shit, you'd better have a good reason for this.”

Matt nodded and continued. “I was walking home from the bus stop, like I said, through Central Park. I came across the van, which had fertilizer in it, but also had nitromethane.”

Foggy didn't react. “Okay?”

“Those are the two ingredients used in the Oklahoma City bombing.”

“Oh shit.”

Matt nodded. “Yeah.”

“So what, you drove it halfway across Manhattan before crashing?”

Matt shrugged. “It went fine. I had planned on dumping it in the river, but at the last minute, nearly hit someone-”

“So you swerved and ran into a wall instead,” Foggy sighed.

“Pretty much.”

“And your leg was crushed.”

He frowned, and Matt could probably hear it coming.

“How did you get out of the van?”

“It was on fire, and I knew that was going to go downhill fast, so I pulled myself out, crawled as far away as possible.”

“Matt... they said that you lost your leg before you even got to emerg. Does that mean your leg just got... left behind?”

“Yeah.” It was mostly true.

“There's something you're keeping from me,” Foggy accused.

“There are many things I'm keeping from you. Passwords, super hero identities, birthday presents...”

“Don't deflect.”

Matt sighed. “Foggy, I swear if there was something relevant to tell you, I would. But there's not. This is just what we have now.”

Foggy let it go, but Matt knew he didn't forget about it.


	7. Chapter 7

Matt texted Jessica, Luke, and Danny.

_Leg injury. Will be recovering for a few weeks. Think you can handle things without me for that long?_

Jessica responded with an eyeroll emoji, Luke asked if he needed anything, and Danny sent him a text back that really wasn't a reply.

It would be fine. They didn't need to know.

* * *

Foggy moved in, for what he said would just been a week, until Matt got back on his feet.

Matt stifled the laughter when Foggy tried to correct himself, and waved it away like he did all the times Foggy used seeing analogies.

For what it was worth, Matt didn't think he needed all that much help. He knew the layout of his apartment well enough that he didn't need his cane, so he could use crutches, and he was able to do all the transfers on his own. Hell, he could even get up from the ground, which Eugenia had him practice in case he fell.

The only thing that was difficult was the shower, and Foggy solved that by running out and grabbing a cheap folding chair so he could sit down. It was a tight fit, but it worked.

* * *

He had physical therapy five days a week, and nearly every day he asked Eugenia when he would be getting a different prosthesis. He'd done enough reading to know that it would take months for the stump to reach its final shape, but he also knew he couldn't wait that long to have a better prosthesis.

It was a month post surgery when Eugenia finally conceded that he would do well to have an intermediate prosthesis- it wouldn't be a definitive one, but it would also be better than the temporary one he'd been using since the surgery. It also meant he wouldn't have to keep wearing the casts, which needed to be redone every week.

The intermediate prosthesis would allow him to begin gait training in earnest, which hadn't really been possible with the temporary prosthesis, which required him to swing his whole leg around. It just wasn't practical.

So off he went to the prosthetist. Eugenia wasn't a prosthetist, just a physical therapist experienced working with amputees, which meant she could do physio with him, but not actually fit him for a prosthesis.

The process involved casting of the stump, and then he had a follow-up with his doctor for an overall assessment. Apparently it was to determine the level of prosthesis he'd need, which he thought was just a way for insurance companies to deny people coverage. For a while, he was worried that being blind would negatively influence him, but he managed to get a K-level 4, which was the highest you could get.

Then it was back to the prosthetist a week after the cast, for the trial of a test socket. His prosthetist, Marco, who was only a few years older than Matt, was genuinely a nice guy.

He made sure to explain what he was doing to Matt before he did it, which eliminated unpleasant surprises.

The test socket fit well, a bonus of it being made for his body, but Marco still made adjustments before adding the pylon and letting Matt test out a bunch of different feet.

“This isn't the same material that your definitive socket will be made out of. This one is thermoplastic, which makes it easier to shape if there are any drastic changes.”

He supervised Matt walking on the parallel bars, and wow was he ever sick of walking only in a straight line between two fixed points.

Marco had him stop and made a few more adjustments.

He stood back to watch Matt walk more.

“Looks nice. I should be able to have the socket done in a few days. Let's say by Thursday? You free then?”

Matt nodded. He'd been working from home since the accident, Foggy handling the client side of things, and he stuck more to paperwork. It would change once he was mobile, but the amount of stairs he needed to traverse just to make it into the office was too many.

It was back to the awful temporary prosthesis and the single forearm crutch, a compromise that allowed him to use his cane and also not fall over.

It took him a good ten minutes to get up the stairs to his apartment, which was a vast improvement over what it had been when he got home from the hospital. Back then, he'd had to sit down and scoot up the steps one at a time, which was entirely humiliating. And of course his nosy neighbours had noticed, but he'd made up something about having surgery on his leg that he'd recover from soon.

His name or any identifying features had never been published in any newspaper articles, a fact that he was immensely relieved by. The newspaper articles did mention that only one person was hurt, and asked for help from the public in identifying the driver.

Which was Matt, of course, but no one had put that together, and at this point, likely never would.

* * *

On Thursday Matt returned to visit Marco, who indeed had finished the socket for his intermediate prosthesis. It was amazing, compared to the last one. It actually fit him and allowed him to bend his knee, which had been mostly impossible due to the way the last one fit.

Marco made more adjustments and swapped out the foot for one that was more responsive. Then he released Matt from the parallel bars and let him walk around the room, first with the crutch, then without.

It was still a bit awkward, he had to adjust his stance a bit, and Eugenia would no doubt have things to say about his gait, but he was walking independently for the first time in over a month.

It was amazing.

He walked out on it.


	8. Chapter 8

It was only after he got the intermediate prosthesis that Foggy moved out. Because of course a week turned into another week which turned into a whole month of Foggy sleeping on Matt's couch.

With him back in his own apartment, Matt had more freedom. He had no intentions of returning to his nighttime activities yet, not without modifications to the prosthesis and his suit.

Which would require Melvin's help.

* * *

“What's up Matt?” Melvin greeted.

Matt hadn't exactly told him of his identity, but Melvin had figured out he was blind, so there really wasn't a need not to tell him his name. Melvin was a good guy, and genuinely wanted to be a good person.

“Hey Melvin. I need your help with something.”

Melvin stopped fiddling with one of his tools and looked up. “Yeah?”

“Do you have any experience with prosthetics?”

Melvin considered that. “Like fake legs and arms?”

Matt nodded.

Melvin shook his head. “Not really. You got a friend that needs something?”

Matt smirked. “Something like that,” he said, lifting up his pant leg for Melvin to see the prosthesis.

“Cool,” Melvin said. “That's new, right?”

Matt grinned. “Yeah, you didn't miss it before.”

He stood still while Melvin examined it closely.

“Sorry about your foot I guess,” Melvin offered.

“Thanks.”

“What were you thinking you wanted? I don't know anything about the part that connects to your body, but I can probably develop a better ankle and foot.”

“Yeah, I was thinking a different ankle, and maybe some sort of covering to hide the fact that it's a prosthetic. Not sure if the suit will fit on with it like this, I haven't tried yet, but that's not an immediate concern.”

Melvin thought for a moment. “Yeah, I could do something. Gimme like a week.”

Matt nodded. “Oh, and this needs to be a secret, okay?”

“Course,” Melvin agreed, already returning to his work.

Matt smiled and let himself out.

* * *

“Well don't you look cheery,” Eugenia teased him as he walked into PT the next day.

He beamed. “No crutches, just the cane from before.”

The process of having to put a leg on in the morning before he could get out of bed was a bit of a change, admittedly, but he'd take it.

Like he guessed, Eugenia had a lot to say about his gait, but overall therapy was more enjoyable than it had been since he'd lost his foot. Things were finally looking up.

* * *

He went back to visit Melvin a few days later and wasn't disappointed.

“The covering is made of the same material that the suit is, but it's a skin tone. Won't fool anyone close up, but if it's dark and the suit is torn, no one should notice. I got the foot done, but I want to make a few more adjustments after I see how it works.”

Melvin didn't know exactly how to attach it, and Matt couldn't actually see it, but he explained the principles and Melvin figured it out.

It was a bit too long, but Melvin also wanted to make more adjustments, so he took it back and left Matt sitting on one of the stools in his workshop while Melvin went to use a grinder. Probably. Maybe a saw?

He returned and Matt tried the foot again. Melvin made unhappy noises as Matt walked with it.

“No, give it back,” he ordered. “It needs reworking.”

Together they reattached the original foot. Melvin said he would keep working on it, and Matt reminded him he wasn't obligated to do anything for Matt, let alone learn a new craft for him.

“I want to,” Melvin insisted, so Matt let it go, and headed home with the same foot, but a much more anatomically similar leg.


	9. Chapter 9

_How's your leg doing?_ Luke texted him later that week.

_Almost healed. Should be able to patrol again soon._

_Cool. Let me know. I’ve got something that I’ll need a few more people for, and you would be a great addition to the team._

Matt replied with a thumbs up.

He returned to work at the office, his gait almost back to normal with Eugenia's help. He still needed a lot of work before he could go out as Daredevil, but it was a nice improvement.

Karen hugged him tightly.

Foggy snorted from his office. “Really Karen? You saw him like every day even when he wasn't coming into the office.”

“It wasn't the same,” Karen told him.

Matt returned to his desk, everything the same as he'd left it, and somehow imperceptibly different.

After work he went to the gym for the first time since he'd lost his foot. He'd been working out at home, sit ups, modified push ups, assorted yoga poses that he could manage with one good foot and one made of metal and plastic. He was still out of shape, but not as bad as he could have been for such a recovery.

Boxing was tricky with only one real leg. A lot of it was in the footwork, which lost something when you didn’t have sensory input from one ankle. But Matt figured it would be an adjustment period to get used to how his body understood where it was in space. His sense of proprioception was better than most, and by the end of one night at the gym, he felt confident he could hold his own in a fight, as long as his opponent wasn’t too competent.

So like, fighting Foggy.

* * *

It only took him two more weeks before he felt like he was in shape enough to hold his own as Daredevil. Eugenia was pleased with his progression in pt, and Matt had also gotten word that Melvin had something for him, so Matt told him he’d stop by soon, and set back to work so Foggy wouldn’t throw things at him for getting distracted again.

* * *

“I might have copied the design for a really expensive foot that I found online,” Melvin admitted as Matt tested out the new foot later that week. “Made my own components and added a few upgrades though.”

Matt grinned. “It's great.” It pivoted like a real ankle, had the same range of motion, and was more responsive than the one he'd been working with. “Thank you.”

Melvin shrugged. “It's not all original, but considering I didn't know much about the field until a couple weeks ago, I think it's pretty good.”

“It's amazing Melvin. Thank you so much.”

“And I made those alterations to the suit you asked for,” he continued, like Matt hadn't spoken at all. “I know you said this isn't the final prosthesis, but I figured you wouldn't want to wait until whenever that was to go out again.”

“I need to find some way to repay you Melvin, for everything you've done. I really appreciate it.”

Melvin shrugged. “S'okay. You keep me and Betsy safe and sent Mr Fisk to prison. You keep lots of other people safe, and I keep you safe. That's just how it works.”

Matt smiled. “Yeah, it is, isn't it?”

* * *

He tried the suit on at home. It fit perfectly.

He sat on the roof of his building in it, just listening, the ache in his chest reminding him how much he'd missed this.

* * *

He went out the next night, starting off easy. He stopped a mugging, chased off two sketchy men that were talking about a kidnapping near a playground, and rescued a cat out of a tree.

The cat was not appreciative, but at least the owner was.

He was aching a bit when he got home, but nothing excessive. No blood, no bruises. A win, really.

Danny texted him late that night, just as he was getting in bed.

_Saw you out again! Glad you’re all healed up. Did you know I can use the power of the Iron First to heal people? I probably should have told you that earlier. Next time._

Matt rolled his eyes. It was thoughtful, sure, but Matt doubted that even Danny’s chi powered fist could regrow his leg. He wasn’t a salamander.

_Thanks for telling me. Let me know about the details of that teamup Luke had mentioned having soon._

Matt shook his head, tossed his phone aside, and took his leg off before settling in to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Of course, it was his first time out with the Defenders again that things went to shit.

They were in a warehouse taking down a drug trafficker operation, a dozen or so people with guns and improvised weapons like metal pipes all hell bent on not letting them interfere. Luke chased after the few people who tried to escape out the back, and the three of them handled the remaining people inside. Matt knocked guns out of hands before people could pull triggers, and Jessica picked up a table and threw it at a few others, who all fell spectacularly.

Matt was so preoccupied with the man who was attempting to stab Danny that he barely noticed someone else who'd already been knocked down crawling over to him with another knife.

The knife went directly into his right calf.

“Shit,” Matt said, pausing.

“Oh no,” Luke said, tossing aside the people he'd carted back into the warehouse.

“It's fine,” Matt said quickly. “Totally fine.”

“There's a knife sticking out of your leg dude,” Jessica pointed out, throwing someone across the room.

“No there isn't?” Matt said desperately. He debated pulling it out and throwing it away but they'd already seen it and would only get angry at him improper first aid procedures.

“Recall who is blind here,” Jessica snapped, stomping across the room to him.

“None of us, clearly,” Matt said loudly in case anyone was listening, but it appeared that everyone they were fighting was now unconscious or out of earshot.

“I don't see much blood, but the suit is red, so,” Jessica said, peering at him.

“I don't think it actually hit me, just got stuck in the suit,” Matt told her. “I'm good to go.”

“Nah, that's at least an inch in,” Danny chimed in.

“I don't think it is,” Matt protested.

“Dude, it's not that big of a deal. We get somewhere safer, maybe call Claire, get her to patch you up.”

Matt knew there was no way they were going to let this go.

“I can do it myself. Claire doesn't need to be called.”

He tried backing away and nearly tripped in his haste.

Jessica caught him. “Stop trying to escape. You know the number of times you've almost died because you insisted you could take care of it yourself?”

Matt considered that. He didn't think it was that many. “Once?”

“Once is still too many,” she snapped, picking him up in her arms entirely.

“No no no!” he shouted. “I don't like this. Put me down.”

He tried kicking, which was a mistake since it moved the knife.

“Fuck Murdock, you're going to slice your leg off. Stop moving,” she growled.

Matt obeyed, mostly because that was terrifying.

Also, terribly ironic, so he stifled a laugh that turned into more of a choke. Jessica probably assumed he was dying, and picked up speed on hightailing it out of there.

Danny got them a car, somehow, despite Matt's protests.

“This isn't necessary,” he said from atop Jessica's shoulders. She'd slung him over her back once she determined it would be easier to carry him that way.

“You don't get a say right now,” Luke instructed him.

Matt wondered if there was any point in trying to tell them he didn't have a leg any more, but that would only lead to more questions and worrying. His best bet was to get Claire to cover it up for him.

“Is Claire coming?” he sighed.

“No answer,” Luke replied.

Which meant she was probably too busy to help vigilantes, and they would be on their own. So much for relying on Claire to help him hide.

Maybe if he got free of Jessica's grip, he could disappear into the shadows and take care of it on his own. He wiggled, pondering if a punch would be enough to at least distract her, since it wouldn't be enough to knock her out.

“Danny!” Jessica said sharply.

Matt had no idea what she was yelling for Danny for, but apparently Jessica had realized what he was trying to do, because Danny apologized right before hitting him with the fist.


	11. Chapter 11

Matt woke up in Jessica's apartment, the smell of alcohol a dead giveaway. He wasn't entirely sure why he was there, but he heard the three of them having a quiet argument amongst themselves.

“Listen, I'm not going to be the one to have him bleed to death on my bed,” Jessica hissed.

“I could heal him,” Danny offered.

“He said he could handle this on his own. What if he wasn't lying?”

Shit. The knife in his leg. They probably thought he was going to bleed out if he removed it, but the truth was far worse.

They'd left him unattended. Maybe he could slip out and-

“He's awake,” Jessica said.

Or not.

“I'm fine,” Matt said. “Although I could have a concussion from Danny-”

“No one cares,” Jessica cut him off. “We're a bit more concerned with the knife in your leg.”

“It doesn't hurt?” Matt offered.

“Coming from you that's not a great endorsement.”

“It needs to come out. Can you tell if it's hit an artery?” Luke asked. “Bone? Another major vessel?”

Matt paused, pretending to listen. He shook his head. “Missed everything major. I keep telling you that it's fine. Why does no one believe me?”

“One time nearly dying is enough,” Jessica snapped. “Now strip or we'll cut it off.”

Matt scowled, debating. The only one who might be able to keep a secret was Luke. Jessica had little regard for privacy and Danny was hopeless with secrets, but Luke would likely feel a moral obligation to inform the others as soon as he found out, so even that wasn't a safe bet.

Matt sighed, but shimmied the suit pants down as far as they would go before getting stuck by the knife. At least he had leggings on underneath, so they couldn't immediately see the prosthesis.

“It's going to have to come out for them to come off the rest of the way,” Matt told them.

“Alright. I'll pull, Jessica you apply pressure, then we'll see what we're dealing with,” Luke decided.

They readied themselves. Matt sat back against the pillows and sighed. At least Jessica had the foresight to put down a towel.

“Now.”

Luke pulled the knife out, Matt shoved the pants down, Jessica pressed a towel against Matt's leg.

Luke examined the knife. “It's not bloody.”

“I told you it didn't penetrate the skin,” Matt huffed.

“It was at least an inch in. Your suit isn't that thick.”

Everyone was uneasy.

“Jess, how's the bleeding?”

Jessica shifted the towel. “Um... good? As in there's not any?”

“Why does no one believe me,” Matt scowled.

“You have a history of being untruthful,” Luke informed him.

Jessica lifted the towel up entirely, pulling at the material of his leggings, which had been ripped by the knife.

Melvin had done a great job with the housing of the prosthesis, but it still was distinguishable from skin.

“What the fuck?” she swore, tearing his pant leg the rest of the way.

Matt sat back against the pillows.

“Something you want to tell us Matt?” Luke asked, as Jessica tore his pants off that leg entirely, revealing the prosthesis in all its glory.

He shrugged.

“So when you said you had a leg injury... You meant that you lost the fucking thing,” Jessica said.

Matt winced. “Maybe?”

“Dude,” Luke sighed.

“Wow, that's awesome,” Danny breathed.

“I told you I was fine,” he huffed.

“This time, maybe, but clearly not the last time,” Jessica snapped.

“What happened?” Luke asked.

“Car accident. It was a bit crushed.”

“That van from Central Park, was that you?” Danny asked.

Jessica and Luke turned to stare at him.

“What, I read the news,” he said defensively. “Sometimes.”

Matt sighed. “Yeah.”

“That was what, three months ago? How are you even doing this?” Jessica asked. “I need a drink.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Matt heard her slamming cupboards open and closed.

Matt waited for her to return before answering the question.

“A lot of physical therapy. This isn't even the definitive prosthesis, since there are all sorts of changes that happen in the first six months or so after surgery. This is just more of a long term temporary one. Melvin was able to help me with it a lot, making it ready for fighting. He's honestly the best.”

“Doesn't it hurt?” Danny asked.

Luke nodded in agreement.

Matt shifted on the bed. “A bit, yeah.”

“He's lying,” Jessica announced. “And I don't need bat hearing to know that.”

Matt scoffed. “Yeah, it hurts sometimes. It's like punching a wall with a mitten on. But what I do is important.”

“Not more important than your life, man,” Luke told him seriously. “What if this gets you killed?”

Matt shook his head. “I don't think you understand how much I need this. It's not just that the city needs me, which it does. But sometimes it's all I can do to remind myself that some things can't be solved in court rooms, some things can only be solved in darkness.”

Jessica muttered something about it always being darkness where he was concerned, but he ignored her.

“You know, Misty has a prosthetic arm,” Luke said after a moment.

“Really?” Matt asked, perking up in the bed a bit.

Luke nodded. “Yeah. She lost it in that whole... Hand thing when you died.”

“Didn't die,” Matt muttered.

“I can give her your number,” Luke suggested.

“Sure,” Matt agreed. “As long as she doesn't spread it around. Not many people know, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

“No problem man,” Luke told him.

“Anyway, I'm going to put my pants back on now, if everyone is okay with that,” Matt announced.

“You haven't already?” Jessica called from the kitchen, where she'd gone to get more alcohol, having already finished the first bottle.

Matt didn't dignify that with a response, and shimmied his pants back up around his hips, ignoring the press of nausea as he moved. It wasn't really necessary for Danny to knock him out, since between the three of them, they were more than capable of getting him somewhere conscious.

Seeing the look on his face, Luke took pity on him. “Come on man. Danny can take you home, since he was the one who gave you the head injury.”

“Oh yeah, sorry man,” Danny apologized. “But to be fair, at the time we were worried about you running away with a knife in your leg and bleeding to death, so...” he shrugged.

Foggy was definitely going to be smug about his secret coming back to bite him. Maybe he wouldn't tell him.


	12. Chapter 12

He called in sick to work the next day, citing a migraine, which was close enough to what he was experiencing he didn't feel like he was lying to Foggy.

Foggy texted in the afternoon saying he was coming over after work, and Matt knew there was no convincing him otherwise. Thankfully his headache was mostly gone and the nausea had abated by the time Matt could hear Foggy enter the building.

“So, I got an interesting text today,” Foggy said, letting himself in. “From Danny, who I didn’t even know had my number. He was wondering how you were doing today, and also to tell you that he was sorry for giving you a concussion, and _also_ that if you need Rand to start developing prosthetics, that he would be happy to do it. So I’m guessing something happened last night?”

Matt grumbled at him.

“Oh, you mean I was right about your secret coming back to bite you in the ass? Score one for Foggy.”

Matt threw up his arms. “Fine, yes, you were right. You’re consistently right about these kinds of things and I hate it a little. I got stabbed in the leg and they were worried I was going to die, despite me telling them it was going to be fine-

“Oh I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t believe that,” Foggy muttered.

“-so they knocked me out and carted me to Jessica’s place, where they pulled the knife out only to find that I was fine, just like I said.”

“And discovered you were fine because your leg wasn’t real.”

Matt crossed his arms. “Yes.”

Foggy sighed. “I mean, can I say that I’m glad it’s coming in handy for something? Avoiding stab wounds is great. Can you try to get all your stab wounds in the right leg in future?”

“Oh yeah, let me paint a target on the costume there, surely that will convince people to aim for it.”

“But you’re okay otherwise, right?”

“My teammates hurt me worse than the bad guys did,” he promised.

“I hate it when you lie to me,” Foggy admitted.

“I’m not. You want me to strip down so you can check for injuries? I’ll do it.”

Foggy scoffed. “I don’t mean now. Well, I kind of do, since I bet you weren’t going to tell me about this incident unless I brought it up, right?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably, which was answer enough, because Foggy sighed at him.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said finally. “I don’t mean to keep things from you. But I had to hide things for so long, and it’s a tough habit to break. It’s my default,” he admitted. “I don’t want it to be.”

“I know bud,” Foggy told him, and collapsed onto his couch. “Between your Catholic guilt thing and the secret identity, you’ve got a lot of repressing to overcome.”

That was truer than Foggy could know.

“There’s something else though, isn’t there?”

Matt didn’t think there was. Except for- oh. Oh there was something. But Matt had been working hard to keep it from even himself, and saying it out loud would make it impossible to take back.

“I-” he started, then squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh Matty,” Foggy said softly.

“It’s not important,” Matt said, eyes still closed, and it was a blatant lie, and he knew Foggy could see that.

“Why are you lying to me Matt?” Foggy pleaded. “I know you are, and I thought since that whole finding you bleeding on your floor thing that you were at least _trying_ to be more honest with me. What is so important that you need to keep it a secret?”

“I cut it off, okay?” Matt snapped. “It was crushed in the collision, but it was still there. Could it have been saved? Maybe. I'm not a doctor so I don't know. But the van was on fire and I knew there were chemicals in it, explosive chemicals, and there was no one around to help. Don't they teach you in first aid that it's life over limb? That's what I chose Foggy, okay.”

Foggy was horrified, he could tell. He'd moved away from Matt as soon as he started talking, his heart rate was fast, his mouth was gaping open.

“I fucked up about the van and nearly killed someone else, and instead just got myself hurt. Maybe it's punishment or something, who knows, but I didn't want to tell you because I knew how you'd be. I didn't tell anyone. The surgeon suspected, but couldn't prove anything, and no one else wanted to believe it could be anything else.”

He felt the scars on his palms.

“I wanted to pretend it was anything else,” he admitted.

Foggy didn't say anything. Neither did Matt.

Finally, Foggy took a breath.

“Matt,” he said firmly. “I know you probably think that I'm going to be angry you didn't tell me, or angry about it happened, or whatever, but I am not angry. I am horrified that you had to go through that, and that you didn't feel like you could tell me. I'm trying to imagine you having to do that, and I can't. Hell, if it was me, I wouldn't have been able to, I know that.”

He considered for a second. “Okay, I am a little mad you didn't tell me, but that's mostly because I thought we were past the secret keeping stage of our friendship. I don't want you to think you have to keep things from me to protect me or whatever. Friendship is sharing your burdens and then getting drunk together to numb the pain. Or something along those lines, whatever the saying is.”

Matt blinked away the tears that were threatening his eyes. “I think we should get drunk together now,” he said.

Foggy beamed. “Hell yeah dude.”

As he was digging glasses out of the cupboard, he paused. “Matt, how did Danny get my phone number?”

“Honestly, it’s probably better not to question it,” Matt told him.

“Sounds good enough to me,” Foggy replied, popping the top off his beer and forgoing the glass altogether.

* * *

That night, as they both got pleasantly buzzed, Matt told Foggy more about the accident, about how he tore metal from the crumpled van to use as a makeshift scalpel, how he had to drag himself from the burning vehicle, and when he felt the heat of the explosion. The disorientation of the paramedics and the ride to the hospital and the forgetting and remembering with the growing sense of dread that something was wrong.

He even explained the Beardevil dream (nightmare?) he had.

And at the end, when Matt explained about the shame and guilt he felt for not telling Foggy earlier, Foggy just patted him on the head and told him it was all fine.

And Matt thought, for the first time in a long time, that it would be.


End file.
